


i love you, boy

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Caretaking, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Gentle Dom Peter Hale, M/M, POV Peter Hale, Praise Kink, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 04:10:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10891416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: Stiles settles in the chair easily, but his heartrate spikes when Peter tips his face up, fingertips stroking over the coarse beginnings of a very sad attempt at facial hair.“I can do this myself, you know.”He almost sarcastically asks why it hasn’t been done then, but he knows why. It’s the same reason there are dark shadows below his baby’s eyes and a faint tremor in otherwise-steady hands.





	i love you, boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aminias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aminias/gifts).



> I'M BACK, BITCHES! Holy fucksticks on fire, it feels like forever since I posted. But! I'm hoping to get back to regular posting this month, now that I have successfully moved and gotten my health mostly in order. The last couple months went heavy on the suckage, and writer's block was the result. 
> 
> This is a slightly-belated birthday gift to Aminias, who also helped bring this to life! Beta-reading was provided by SlasherFiend, and cheering/enabling by Greenie, DenaCeleste, and moony (moonlightcalls). 
> 
> . . . which means it is THEIR FAULT I wrote velvety-soft D/s. Like, seriously--if I'd indulged myself any harder, I'd still be in the afterglow.

 

 

“Peter—”

“Don’t make me put you over my knee.” He knows his baby likes it, but there are ways to make it an effective deterrent.

“But what if I’d like that?”

Peter stares at him, at the tiredness stamped all over him. It’s hunching his shoulders, dulling the sparkle in his eyes, has turned his creamy skin ashen. He waits, saying nothing. The half-assed smile falls off his baby’s face as the attempt at deflection fails.

“Let me do this for you.” It’s as much an order as a request, and he breathes easier when Stiles nods.

He leads Stiles into the bathroom, where he has everything ready, and strips his boy slowly before wrapping a bathrobe around the lithe body he loves. Stiles settles in the chair easily, but his heartrate spikes when Peter tips his face up, fingertips stroking over the coarse beginnings of a very sad attempt at facial hair.

“I can do this myself, you know.”

He almost sarcastically asks why it hasn’t been done then, but he knows why. It’s the same reason there are dark shadows below his baby’s eyes and a faint tremor in otherwise-steady hands. “I’m aware. But you know that I take care of what’s mine.”

The implication that Stiles is his brings a beautiful pop of colour to pallid cheeks. He hates to cover it up with the hot towel, but he can always make his boy blush later. The pleasant groan Stiles gives at the feeling more than makes up for it.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs. Warmth unfolds in his chest when his boy immediately complies. “Good boy.”

He kneads the tense muscles in Stiles’s neck and shoulders as he waits for the moist heat to do its job, enjoying watching his boy go pliant under his hands. He unwinds the towel and whisks the foam with a critical eye toward his baby, curious as to how Stiles will respond to this. If, perhaps, he’ll let Peter shave him other places.

It’s a delicious thought, but one to explore later.

For now, he lathers his baby’s face and throat, and then picks up the straight razor. Stiles’s heart stutters, and he gives his boy a small smile before carefully clearing the first swath. He keeps his free hand on the strong jaw, tilting it just so as he exposes delicate skin with the razor. When he moves down to Stiles’s throat, he can’t help the pleased rumble he makes. It gives him a visceral thrill, tickles his animalistic urges, to have his boy submit this way, and with such absolute trust.

Because Stiles’s heartrate has picked up, but not with fear. Even if Peter couldn’t smell his gathering arousal, it would still be obvious in the flush creeping across the fair skin and the growing swell under the bathrobe. He decides he wants to nurture the budding arousal, wants to see his boy dopey and soft with satisfaction.

“You’re being so good for me, baby,” he murmurs, “letting your Daddy take care of you.”

Stiles’s eyes fly open and he whimpers, but he doesn’t move otherwise. Which is lucky, as Peter’s not quite done shaving him. “I missed this, you know,” he continues. “Having you under my hands, letting me do whatever I want. You take it so well, too.”

His boy whines as he wipes the smooth skin clean. “I missed it, too.”

The whispered confession is off. “But?”

Stiles can’t hold his eyes. “But it . . . this isn’t what I expected.”

Peter lets his claws slide free, and feathers the sharp tips up his baby’s throat until Stiles is looking at him again. “You’re just as much mine when you’re taking my cock as when I’m patching your injuries or shaving your pretty face.” Stiles tries to pull away, but Peter retracts the claws to catch his jaw. “You are just as clever, as strong, as _worthy_ when you’re letting me hold you as when you’re fighting rogue Alphas.” He leans in to whisper into Stiles’s ear. “You are mine, and I derive great satisfaction in protecting and taking care of what’s mine. Am I understood?”

Stiles’s voice is thin, but he breathes, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then go get on the bed. I want you on your back, bare and legs spread for me.”

He smirks at the nod he gets and the way his boy rushes to obey. No doubt baby expects playtime, something more than they’ve done tonight. And, while Peter would love to bind his boy to the headboard and fuck him until he comes untouched, he has something else in mind.

He saunters in after tidying the bathroom just enough to keep it from being a nightmare later, and is greeted with the sight of Stiles sprawled across his sheets. “Good boy, doing exactly as I said.”

“Please, Daddy?”

He perches on the edge of the bed, one hand tracing patterns up the inside of Stiles’s thigh. “Please what, baby? What do you need?”

Stiles’s mouth opens and closes as he twists into and away from the teasing touch. “You,” he finally mewls.

“You have me, baby.” And then he’s settling himself between the spread thighs, pressing his baby down as they kiss. He can feel that his boy is hard, but doesn’t roll his hips. Peter just kisses him until he breaks away to gasp, and then moves to nip and suck at the bared throat. Stiles’s hand finds its way into his hair at that.

“Please?”

It’s so sweet, to hear him beg like he thinks he might be denied. Peter moves downwards, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses as he goes. He stops when he reaches his baby’s tummy, detouring around the cock demanding attention to focus on lean thighs. Shifting to pin his baby’s hips, he braces a hand just above the knee before sinking his teeth into the soft flesh. Not hard enough to break skin, or cause true hurt, but hard enough that Stiles fights his hold, trying to jackknife.

He presses a kiss to the ring of teeth marks before moving a little higher to suckle a hickey into existence. Baby is whining now, but there are no real words. Just need.

He doesn’t stop until Stiles’s inner thigh is a splotchy mess of lovebites and beard burn, a riot of colour against the fair skin that marks this sharp, beautiful boy as his. It’s only then that he turns to the erection oozing all over Stiles’s stomach. “Look at me, baby.”

He waits until the glazed-over eyes focus on him before he licks a slow, deliberate stripe up his boy’s cock. The strangled whine he gets in response is delicious, so he tongues at the head, maintaining eye contact.

“Please, Daddy, please, please, _please_ let me come.”

He doesn’t give a verbal reply, instead rubbing his thumb back and forth over his baby’s thigh as he stops teasing, pulling Stiles into his mouth. He doesn’t bob, just sucks in little pulses while his tongue strokes the way he knows will rocket his baby into orgasm.

It isn’t long before Stiles’s long fingers are tugging gently at his hair. “Daddy, _close_ , I’m gonna, please?”

Peter can’t help the surge of affection he feels. He knows his baby is about to come, can see and smell and hear it, and the fact that his sweet boy is holding back, waiting for him to give permission, is deeply satisfying. He hums his assent, because of course he does—he’s not going to stop, not when baby’s so close, not when he’s worked so hard to get them here. He savours the little broken cries as much as the come that fills his mouth a moment later.

After, he slides up to murmur soft nothings his baby won’t hear anyhow. Not through the tears and haze of afterglow. But he doesn’t mind holding his boy down, safe underneath him, until the boneless relaxation and tiredness carry the poor thing off to sleep. It’s only once the panting gasps have evened out into the deep, slow breaths of unconsciousness that he pulls the covers from under his sleeping boy and tucks Stiles beneath them. He takes a moment to strip before sliding between the sheets and pulling baby into the curve of his body, his hand splayed over Stiles’s vulnerable belly.

He falls asleep to the sound of his boy’s even breaths and familiar heartbeat.

**Author's Note:**

> Why yes, I shamelessly stole the title for this from a Lady Gaga song.


End file.
